"I don't think so much of her," Hubert grunted. "I went into the saloon-bar once, and she said, 'Here, my man, the public bar is the hother side.' 'Oh, his it?' I said. 'Well, I can't round the corner for the crowd,' I said, 'listening to your old man singing "At Trinity Church I met my doom" on the pavement outside.' She didn't half color up, I can tell you. So he was singing, too, fit to give any one the earache to listen to him. I don't want to go to her supper-party." "Well, if you're not going, you needn't be so nasty about it, Hube. I'd take you if I could." "I wouldn't come," Hubert declared. "Not if Mrs. Hartle was to go down on her knees and ask me to come. So shut your mouth." The chief event of the party for Sylvia was her meeting with Danny Lewis, who paid her a good deal of attention at supper and danced with her all the time afterward. Sylvia was grateful to him for his patience with her bad dancing at first, and she learned so quickly under his direction that when it was time to go she really danced rather well. Sylvia's new friend saw them back to Colonial Terrace and invited himself to tea the following afternoon. Edith, who could never bear the suggestion of impoliteness, assured him that he would be most welcome, though she confided in Sylvia, as they went up to bed, that she could not feel quite sure about him. Sylvia insisted he was everything he should be, and praised his manners so highly that Edith humbly promised to believe in his perfection. Arthur went up-stairs and slammed his door without saying good night. The next morning, a morning of east wind, Arthur attacked Sylvia on the subject of her behavior the night before. "Look here," he opened, very grandly, "if you prefer to spend the evenings waltzing with dirty little Jews, I won't stand it." Sylvia regarded him disdainfully. "Do you hear?" repeated Arthur. "I won't stand it. It's bad enough with that great hulking lout here, but when it comes to a greasy Jew I've had enough." "So have I," Sylvia said. "You'd better go back to Hampstead." "I'm going to-day," Arthur declared, and waited pathetically for Sylvia to protest. She was silent. Then he tried to be affectionate, and vowed he had not meant a word he said, but she brushed away his tentative caress and meek apology. "I don't want to talk to you any more," she said. "There are lots of things I could tell you; but you'll always be unhappy anyway, because you're soft and silly, so I won't. You'll be home for dinner," she added. When Arthur was ready to start he looked so forlorn that Sylvia was sorry for him. "Here, take Maria," she said, impulsively. "He'll remind you of me." "I don't want anything to remind me of you," said Arthur in a hollow voice, "but I'll take Maria."